


Afternoon Delight

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-30
Updated: 2006-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:42:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I love that song, <i>Afternoon Delight</i> by the Starland Vocal Band. So innocent sounding. And yet so sexy</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love that song, _Afternoon Delight_ by the Starland Vocal Band. So innocent sounding. And yet so sexy

_Thinkin' of you's workin' up my appetite  
looking forward to a little afternoon delight._   


"Ok. Will you hurry the fuck up? I gotta go back to work....take off that hat."

Pete had simply rushed in through the door when Patrick opened it. A tiny tornado. Hurricane. Volcano. _Something_ drastic and dramatic, and Patrick was not amused.

"What? Come on. I made us some lunch. Sit your ass down and eat," Patrick replied, glaring as Pete pulled off his tie the way a person might rip a noose from off the neck of a reprieved man. _Oh my god. What is he doing?_

"Forget the lunch. You know I don't like soup. Come here....come _on,_ I said come _here_!"

"I made this soup from scratch, man!" It was good soup too. Cream of pumpkin. Very smooth."

What an asshole. He said he wanted something nice for lunchtime, and Patrick went into all that trouble. He opened his mouth to curse at him, and Pete literally _ran_ over and kissed him, deep and hard. What the fuck. Pete pulled back, smiling heatedly and Patrick stared at his face, just a little overwhelmed. Pete's eyes were boring a dark sharp fire right to his groin and alright, _now_ he was helpless.

"I said I wanted something _nice_ for lunch. I meant _you_ ," Pete explained as he hauled Patrick in the direction of the bedroom. "And I'll _eat_ the soup, don't worry."

"Good," Patrick said as Pete closed the door and yanked his t-shirt over his head. "It's cream of pumpkin. Very smooth."

*

"Oh," Pete moaned out as Patrick bit him on the slope of his shoulder. "Okay. _Fuck."_ Yeah, this was about a thousand times _better_ than _nice_.

"I thought you said you had to make this quick," Patrick smirked. While he was arching and panting. Pete had never seen anyone smirk like that whilst they were in the middle of doing something so hot. Pete returned the bite, on the side of his neck, and Patrick bucked against him, gasping quickly. The blinding sunlight was cascading all over them through the half-opened shades, and Patrick's skin was almost translucent. Pete felt if he looked hard enough, he would see the blood pulsing rapidly through the delicate mapwork of veins.

Pete had been thinking about him since this morning. Since he had left him wrapped up cosily in the bed, and left for the office, he had just been _bombarded_ with Patrick-thoughts. He had even called him in the middle of a long meeting (make those asses wait, he _owned_ that joint) and tried to code to him that he _wanted_ something _nice_ , but Patrick, interrupted in the middle of his own work, had probably been too annoyed at Pete to pick it up.

No worries. Here they were. After seven months, and they were _just_ now doing this daytime business? For shame. Because this was wonderful; it was almost too exciting. Pete had turned off the air-conditioning on purpose, and opened one of the windows, so that the warm summer air was pulsing in around them, making them slick with sweat as they moved against each other. It was a sweetly quiet day, and the lazy sound and smell of the grass being cut in the park across the way was, for some reason, making Pete feel just _fantastic_.

Patrick hooked his leg around Pete's, to draw him in closer, and Pete could feel the hot flesh of his inner thigh burning the skin on the outside of Pete's leg. He groaned. Yeah, so _this_ was what he had barrelled out of the office for, scaring his secretary nearly shitless (she was a flighty little thing anyway; if he said _boo_ , she jumped). It was a lucky thing his office was so close to Patrick's apartment. He had still broken the speed-limit on the way over, though. And probably double-parked.

Patrick was whispering in his ear. Oh. My. Goodness. What a kinky _bastard._ You would never know just by looking at him. All you saw were these beautiful changeable eyes, that pale perfect skin, and the head of fly-away red-gold hair. So lovely. What a little angel, right?

 _Wrong._

"I just love to feel you, Pete," he was murmuring. "Maybe tomorrow...I can tie you up for lunch. Wouldn't you like that?"

Yeah, uh-huh, he totally would.

"Pete," moaned Patrick, and Pete was simply scrambling all over him, and within him, because his name coming out of Patrick's mouth like that was indescribable. "And when I tie you up, I'll do you _hard._ Ok?"

Okay. Okay, that was too much. Merely the image of Patrick smiling serenely down at him as his hands were strapped to the bedhead was enough to shove him over the edge into the hazy pleasure called _orgasm_ by most, but which he referred to as _ohfuckpatrickisAMAZING_. He watched as Patrick closed his eyes, opened those full lips, and moaned his name again while he followed him over, and the sunlight was just streaming into Pete's eyes, blinding him to everything but Patrick.

*

"Good afternoon, Mr. Wentz," his secretary greeted him. She always forgot that he said preferred when people called him Pete, and he was tired of reminding her. "How was lunch?"

"Oh. Great. I had cream of pumpkin soup. Made from scratch... _very_ smooth."

He went into his large office to call Patrick and tell him what he wanted for dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

Pete gripped the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and pointedly ignored the flashing lights on the office phone. The intercom rang and he picked up wearily.

"Yeah?" he breathed, a little sharply.

"Mr. Wentz? Sorry... _Pete_?" (He wondered why his secretary always questioned his name like that, as if it could be someone else sitting in the CEO's office with his name on the door.) "Mr. Stump-I mean, _Patrick_ -is on line five. Put him on hold?"

"No, no, put him through," Pete replied, rolling his eyes. He had already told her _never_ to put Patrick on hold. This new secretary might be an excellent organizer, but she was too nervous about him. Maybe it was because he was so young; at least, younger than her; or the strange mixture of the weird suits, (Clan suspenders, such fun), tattoos, the wild hair and the eerie business savvy. Whatever.

"Hey. It's almost two o'clock," Patrick said as soon as he was put through, and Pete groaned.

"Yeah, I know. I haven't had lunch as yet...I had four monster meetings this morning and maybe two more soon."

"I thought you were coming _home_ for _lunch_ ," Patrick said slowly. Pete frowned a little.

"There? What are you talking abo-"

Oh. Yeah. (Oh. Al _right_!)

"Hold on. Ok, _don't_ hold on, just hang up. I'll see you in fifteen minutes."

He disconnected the call before Patrick could say anything and called his secretary.

"Look, put off everything I have this afternoon 'til tomorrow. Everything. I'm going for lunch."

"But, it's two o'clock, sir," she replied dubiously into her earphone. There was no answer, and she let out a little shriek as his door flew open and he strode past her, dragging on his jacket. He flicked her a dark look over his shoulder as she clutched a folder to her chest.

"I'm going for _lunch_ ," he insisted calmly, and then stopped. He turned fully towards her and gave her the Grin that Launched 1,000 Companies. "Lunch. Dinner. Supper. The works. I won't be in again until tomorrow."

He resumed his cocky stroll right into the elevator; she watched as they closed and then ran over to Mr. Hurley's secretary, over by the Clan Illustrative unit.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "Nicole, is he going to Mr. Stump? I didn't know he was _gay_!"

Nicole gave her a withering look. She was new, alright. She would probably burst if Nicole told her that not only was he _gay_ , he was _married_. And Mr. Stump was really known as Mr. Wentz as well.

"Have you ever _seen_ Patrick?" Nicole asked and looked triumphant at her head shaking no. "Trust me. Wait 'til you see him. You'll be gay for him, too."

*

"What did I promise you for lunch, Pete? From yesterday? " Patrick said, eating his mashed potatoes slowly while leaning against the kitchen counter. He was using a spoon, and kept licking the bowl of it with great leisure. Pete was staring at him, spellbound. "Well...aren't you going to answer?"

"Errrrr," Pete gave out from the other side of the open counter, completely forgetting his own middle _names_ , much less the _answer_. Patrick was grinning at him, taking another spoonful and doing that _thing_ , with his tongue slipping out and running along the edge of the spoon. Pete was going crazy. He could literally feel his head exploding. Patrick leaned forward and his smile got even wider.

"I promised to tie you up for lunch, right?"

"Who the hell _are_ you?" Pete whispered in amazement, and Patrick laughed. "I mean, _really_. Why the _fuck_ is it I can't get enough of you?"

Patrick shrugged eloquently, and Pete thought it was the most sensible thing he had ever heard.

*

"Is that too tight?" Patrick asked, and Pete shook his head. They were using his tie, the one with the large blue panda-bear on it that Patrick had solemnly given him three months ago. Andy thought it was cute.

His hands were bound to together at the bedhead, and he was stretched out, almost naked except for his boxers. Patrick chose that moment to straddle him and nip him right below his armpit. Right where he was most ticklish. He bucked up, trying to throw Patrick off, but Patrick held on like a real cowboy and simply dragged his tongue across his chest, making sure to go around his nipples lazily. Pete felt too weak already. Oh, my. _Oh my_.

Patrick was peeking at him from under his lashes as he continued to lick his way down, and his eyes were full of humour as Pete twisted himself up towards that tongue. He felt his boxers whispering down his legs and off his body and he simply shuddered as Patrick's mouth suddenly slipped over him.

Oh, oh, _oh_...okay. Now he was regretting the whole tied-up hands procedure. Because he _really_ sorta needed his hands right now. Patrick released him, laughing low, and bent Pete's legs, kissing his way up the inside of one thigh. He actually lifted that captured leg, straightened it, and _bit_ the back of the knee. Pete was sure that when he was released from the tie, he might as well be put in a straightjacket. Patrick got up, putting Pete's leg down and finally getting out of all his clothes while rummaging in the side-table. Pete was just blown away by him. Look at that _hair_. Look at that _skin_. Okay, and just look at those _eyes_ , now a deep blue as Patrick came back to the bed and waggled the little bottle of lube at him in sheer mischief.

"Just hurry _up_ ," Pete urged as Patrick went through all the motions as slowly as he possibly could, making Pete hate him just a little bit.

"Aren't you supposed to be going back to work?" Patrick asked pointedly as he came up to kiss Pete, one hand resting beside his head on the pillow, the other guiding himself towards Pete.

"Fuck that. I'm the damned CEO. I can do anything-anything I want," Pete replied, his speech hitching as he felt Patrick pushing inside.

"Oh _really_. What _would_ your clients think if they saw their CEO tied to the bed and getting fucked?"

Pete's mouth fell open. He never got over Patrick talking like that, and it was just the biggest turn-on, really. He closed his eyes, and breathed out and in, out and in, timed with their movements, and Pete was just gasping and listening to Patrick moan right _into_ his ear. He was arching as Patrick found that perfect angle, his hands plucking restlessly at the fabric of the tie, Patrick's fingers squeezing along his ribs, making him cry out even more.

At this rate, he would be having lunch _everyday_ at his and Patrick's apartment. That might not be too good for the company. Really.

They might have to rectify that.

*

Pete's secretary gaped at Patrick as he smiled at her from across the desk.

Nicole had been absolutely right.

"Is Pete in a meeting?" he asked in such a sweet manner, and she shook her head numbly. "Great. I came to have lunch with him here."

He gave her another mind-bending grin, and picked up the small basket he had been carrying, brushing the burnished strands of hair out of those amazing eyes. She watched his ass carefully as he went inside the office, and she heard the doorlock turn.

Her phone rang. It was Pete's line.

"Yes, Mr. Wentz-I mean, _Pete_?"

"I don't want to be disturbed, okay? We're having lunch."


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh my _God_ , Pete, your secretary transferred me all over the damn place," Patrick griped as soon as Pete picked up the extension in the design room, where Pete had been trying to decide if it was a good idea to bring back the LSCY hoodie and refer to it as "vintage". Pete decided to give it a few more months, and the lead designer had been pouty; Pete had to spend a few minutes soothing ruffled feathers and exclaiming over how well the Patrick 2.0 bedsheets had come out to distract her.

"Sorry, babe," Pete replied, idly doodling on some sketchpaper he had on the light-table in front of him. "What's up?"

"Well. Can you come home? For lunch?" and there was something in Patrick's voice that was a slight tremor. Pete couldn't decide if it was apprehension or excitement, but if it was for _lunch_ lunch, then he would settle for the latter.

He just _adored_ lunch at home. After nearly a year and a half together, he just loved having lunch at the apartment. Such wonderful, fun, sexy lunch.

"Sure," he promised lazily, and hung up the phone, strolling out of that particular department. He passed Andy on the way back to the Comics Section ( _How many times,_ he heard Andy's voice snap  in his head, _do I have to tell you guys that its not just comics. We do graphic novels. Say after me: Graphic. Novels._ ), and tried to ignore Andy's smug grin.

"Where are you off to, Pete?" he asked too innocently, hitching the poster boards in his arms, and Pete tried not to stare at him witheringly.

"Oh...home. For lunch."

"Oh yeah, _lunch_. Is _that_ what they call it now?" Andy yelled at his back as he practically ran down the wide entry stairs to the parking lot. He made sure to take his time driving. One lunch-time, he was stopped for speeding, and it was only because the officer had peered at his face and said "Pete Wentz? Used to play for Fall Out Boy?" that he managed to get out of the ticket. That and the fact that the officer was wearing Clandestine boxers and told him that he found them very comfy. Didn't ride up at all. Pete had to autograph them. Slightly awkward, but anything to get outta that ticket.

He parked the pick-up _(Why do you even_ need _such a big pick-up, Pete? Are you a farmer?_ Patrick had said when he stubbornly went to buy it), and waited impatiently for the elevator to get him to the penthouse. As soon as Patrick opened the door (Pete forgot his key at the office. Again), Pete launched himself at him and kissed him deep, slamming the door behind him with his foot.

He spent about two minutes just reveling in Patrick's mouth when he realised that Patrick was trying to say something. He pulled back reluctantly.

"Finally. I thought you wouldn't give me a breather, man," Patrick laughed, and shoved a little at Pete's chest. "I have something to tell you."

"Where's my _lunch_ ," growled Pete, grinding against him, and Patrick laughed again, slipping back out of his arms. Then he took both of Pete's hands in his, looking in his face.

"The adoption agency called. Some parents pulled out because they didn't want a rape-victim's baby....and we were next on the list. You and me, Pete....hey, I can say that old cliche now: We're gonna have a baby."

Pete frowned and Patrick noticed, and matched it.

"What? What is it, Pete?"

Pete pulled his hands free, trying not to look at the confused dismay on Patrick's face and went to sit heavily on the plush sofa.

A baby.

Wow.

Not good.

Well, maybe good, but he had businesses to run. Patrick had the studio. Where would there be time to raise a child?

"Are we ready for this, Patrick?" he asked softly. Patrick narrowed his eyes at him.

"Don't start with that. Don't you _dare_. We put ourselves on that list for a reason, from the time we exchanged rings, remember? We want a family, right? So, unless you want to go through some weird surgery and get pregnant for me, cause I won't do that, I've seen the birth-story shit on TV, this is the only way."

"You're kinda missing the _point_ , Patrick," Pete fumed a little. "I mean. What do _we_ know about being parents?" and Patrick threw his hands up in the air and came to sit down beside him. Patrick looked steadily at him, and then gave him a small smile.

"What does _anyone_ know about being parents? Pete. Come on. We've been _married_ , you know, for nearly two years. And we've been together for longer than that. And trust me, if I didn't think that you were going to be a good dad, I wouldn't have even considered it."

Pete smiled at him wanly, still with a small flicker of doubt.

"What will people think? We're not exactly a...normal couple."

Patrick smiled, knowing that Pete was giving in.

"You always say 'fuck normal', stupid, and 'who cares what people think'. That's why I love you." Patrick pointed out. He grinned slyly, and gave a rough kiss on the side of his mouth. "So how about your lunch?"

Pete groaned.

"Oh, man, with a baby, we won't be able to get anytime for lunch. Let's _not_ adopt," Pete teased with a mournful countenance, as Patrick slid down to the thickly-carpeted floor, dragging him down as well. Patrick licked his neck and Pete shivered, pulling off his own shirt and pulling at the buttons on Patrick's jeans.

"Tell you what," Patrick promised, arching up his hips so that Pete could pull off his pants. "You come have lunch here everyday until we get the baby. To make up for it."

*

Lunchtimes had become quite interesting.

During one afternoon session, Patrick insisted that they needed a house.

He was licking his way up from Pete’s knee during this…suggestion.

“What? What are you saying?” Peter gasped, resting back on his elbows and watching Patrick. Even though he could see, he actually jumped as Patrick’s warm mouth slipped over him. He had _heard_ what Patrick said, yeah; but his brain was currently caught up processing other sensations, and couldn’t bother with such trifles as _listening_ , thank you very much.

“A house,” said Patrick low, as he released Pete and came up further, and slipped his tongue over the planes of Pete’s stomach and dipping into his belly-button. Pete groaned.

“There’s enough space in this apartment. Come _on_ , Patrick; don’t ask me anything when we’re doing shit like this. You _know_ I can’t say no to you during sex.”

“I know.”

Patrick straddled him and pushed him flat, and, oh god, mounted him (mounted was currently Pete’s favourite word. He heard it on a nature documentary. Elephants or something. He was planning to put it on a shirt.) Patrick was already ready for him (Pete had watched the preparations and Patrick had made sure to look at him during all of that and grin wolfishly) and Pete thought Patrick was _totally_ cheating as he leaned down leisurely and whispered in his ear.

“There’s not enough space here and you know it. We need a house. With a yard.” Patrick was rocking up and down in his lap and then bit his neck. “I grew up with a backyard. You did too. Our child has to…say _yes_.”

Pete shook his head, bucking up and grasping onto Patrick’s waist. Patrick was moving faster.

“Say yes.”

Pete opened his mouth to say no and Patrick kissed him deeply, clenching around Pete’s cock.

“Say yes.”

“Yes!” Pete cried out, coming hard inside him. Patrick moaned and Pete felt his warm stickiness cascading over his stomach. Patrick rested on him, kissing him gently and Pete laughed into his mouth.

“Jeez, Patrick. You’re so fucking _persistent_.”

*

“What are we doing with _two_ sitting-rooms, Pete? I want one to be a little studio. You know…so I can work at home sometimes, like I do at the apartment. Send the stuff to Joe at the big studio.”

By this time Pete would have promised Patrick the fucking Taj Mahal, just so that they would stop the house-hunting. If it wasn’t too big, it was too small. Too far from the office. Too near to the city. And Pete had literally torn at his hair when Patrick had vetoed one prospective house because it had a funny _smell_.

But _this_ one. This one looked really good, a large split-level house in a gated community, with an expanse of both front and back-yards, the latter melting back into a neat forest-type fringe that ran all around the little neighbourhood. Patrick’s eyes were gleaming.

“Yeah, yeah, Patrick. So is this it? Is _this_ the one?” Pete asked a little desperately, and Patrick laughed at him, nodding.

*

It was Patrick who declared that they had to ‘christen’ all the rooms. The master bedroom. The kitchen. The store-room. The garage. The three smaller extra bedrooms. The studio. TV Room, Dining room, Family Room, Pete’s library…but not the baby’s room. They even did it in the attic, which was a big laugh, and Pete didn’t bother to go back to the office that day, but he got _so_ into this whole process that when dusk rolled around, they christened the backyard.

Patrick woke up the next day with large red welts on his back, from the grass, and promptly attacked Pete, pinching him ferociously, because it was “all his fault.”

*

Pete came into his office after one particularly long morning session with Andy and the lead artists to find Patrick waiting patiently. In his chair. At his desk.

“Why, _hello_ , Mr. Wentz,” Patrick said solemnly, waving his hand at the seats in front. “Please. Have a seat.”  
Pete had been a little worn out, but for some reason as soon as he saw Patrick, he perked right up again. Literally. In all ways.

“Of course, Mr. Wentz,” he answered, trying hard not to smirk too much, and sat facing Patrick, who waved an envelope in the air.

“Well, as you can see, we got back our psychological evaluations.”

“And?”

“Says what we all know already. You’re a cocky bastard and I’m a sweetheart.” Patrick fixed on a mock-stern look as Pete dissolved into giggles. Pete hurriedly arranged a sorrowfully long look on his face, playing along. “But we’re good to go, parenting-wise. Although you left me to take all the notes in those parenting skills class, while you took phone-calls in the back.”

Pete slumped in the chair, groaning.

“That shit was boring, ‘Trick. And I couldn’t ignore all those calls.”

“Well. That might have to change with the baby, and all. I might have to punish you, too, for being so rude in class.” Patrick pondered deeply, looking at Pete and chewing on his bottom-lip. Pete always liked Patrick’s punishments, and this looked like it was shaping-up to be good, as Patrick got up and came around the desk to straddle him on the chair, knees pressed in the seat on either side of Pete’s thighs. Patrick gave him a loud smacking kiss on his mouth, and then took a gentle bite on his neck, sucking softly at the same time, tongue sliding over the sensitive flesh. Pete moaned, and didn’t hear the quick knock on his door, but muttered darkly when Patrick pulled away quickly and got up off him.

“Ummm…Mr. Wentz?” His secretary said nervously from the door.

“Yes?” The both of them answered and Patrick blushed. Pete turned his head, still slumped in the seat. “What is it?”

“Mr. Hurley- _Andy_ -wanted you to sign-off on these,” she said, coming over and giving him a stack of papers, almost missing his hands as she stared at Patrick, who was running a hand through his hair and inspecting Pete’s pieces of artwork with great intent.

“Thanks,” Pete grounded out, frowning at her quickly retreating back, and then tugged at his awfully tight pants. He looked hopefully at Patrick, who chuckled.

“Maybe you can come home with me for lunch. I can punish you better there.”

*

Patrick read out loud as they had lunch one day (actually _having_ lunch; wonders will never cease) a note from the birth-mother that the adoption agent had given to them. They already knew that she was a rape-victim, a fifteen-year-old with family friends who were too close and parents who were too distant. Patrick had hassled the agent to _just please_ tell them what kind of hair she had. When he had received the baffled answer of _curly and black…why?_ Patrick had looked at Pete in triumph and Pete had rolled his eyes, trying not to feel pleased that the baby just might look even a little like him. He felt proud, in a strange way.

In her shy little letter, the mother was asking them if they would give the baby ( _a boy, Pete_ ) the middle name of Marcus. It was her grandfather’s name, and when she had the baby she was going to go live with her grandparents and go to back to high-school. They didn’t have to, if they didn’t want to, but it would mean a lot to her.

While Pete ate his lasagna and tried to devour Patrick with his eyes, Patrick penned a note just as shy to give to the agent. _Of course we will._

*

Joe and Andy got into four arguments and two fist-fights over quite a few lunches as to who would make the better god-father to the baby. Nothing too serious, of course.

*

The agent had said they were a particularly interesting case, not only because they were a same-sex couple, but because usually, it was good practice to give a baby to a couple who had been married for three or more years. But they had been together for nearly forever, the agent had joked, and had promptly made the recommendations.

This same agent called an anxious Wentz household nearly four months after they had celebrated their second anniversary.

“He’s healthy and in good shape, Patrick,” she said chirpily. “You and Pete can come down to the hospital now.”

Pete almost got another ticket for speeding to the hospital. Damnit.

Patrick was waiting for him in the brightly coloured maternity ward, his eyes very wide and very blue.

Pete was trembling a little, his stomach clenching in nervousness, because oh my God, Oh My God, he's here, after all this time he's here. The nurse smiled, leading them to a large pane of glass and tapped on it, mouthing _Wentz_ to another nurse inside; that other nurse wheeled a small plastic trolley right up to the other side of the glass.

There he was. Little mouth yawning wide, and Pete grasped onto Patrick’s shoulder and stared at the baby, because look. Look at that curly black hair, ( _see_ Pete?) and look at the tiny hands curled up tight, right against his face.

The nurse said to them kindly, "Come...come, you want to hold him?" She lead them into a sweet blue room filled with the delightful afternoon shunshine and rocking-chairs and Patrick sat anxiously in one, waiting until she returned with the small warm bundle and placed it in his arms. Pete hovered at the door and watched Patrick start to rock gently, start to sing softly, and Pete saw the baby open his eyes and seem to look directly at Patrick.

Patrick smiled, still singing low.

Patrick looked up at Pete, who was still peeking uncertainly through the doorway, and got up, walking towards him. Pete held out his arms too stiffly, and gathered the surprisingly heavy weight of the baby into his hands and chest, and he looked down at that small smooth face and felt his heart break into a million pieces and get put back together again, only better than before, because now here they all are, complete; and as Patrick kissed the baby's cheek and then pressed his mouth against Pete's jaw, Pete greeted their son.

"Hello, Devlin," he said as the baby stretched comfortably in his arms. "Hello, bud."


End file.
